Say It
by Vytina
Summary: She hates him when he makes her say it. And he knows it.


**A/N: I contemplated posting this story for some time now. I will admit I am a little nervous about opening this one up to public review, but I suppose life really isn't nearly as fun without a little risk involved. I especially like this story because it puts the best aspects of Iris and Jonathan's relationship on display. Some of their best moments happen while they are intimately involved. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**That being said, there is one thing I need to make very clear.**

**I have mentioned this several times, but there are still a few people out there who really don't take my requests to heart, so let me state it as clear as possible. I will be accepting constructive criticism on this story, by which I mean grammatical issues, plot themes and concepts, and so on. I will NOT, under any and all circumstances, be accepting critiques of my character. Praise and compliments, yes. Please offer them and receive happy comments in response. If you flame Iris in any way, I will respond in kind. I happen to like her and be very proud of what kind of character she is, and if you don't, let that be your affair. I respect that Iris is not everyone's favorite character and do not expect all people to adore her. Please be respectful and do NOT flame her. You will put me in a very bad mood. Thank you in advance.**

**Title: Say It**

**Summary: She hates him when he makes her say it. And he knows it.**

**Character Pairing: Jonathan Crane/The Scarecrow x Iris DeLaine (OC)**

**Rating: M for sexual content and language**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters affiliated with Batman the Animated Series. I own only the idea for this story and my dainty little vixen Iris DeLaine.**

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"_What is commonly called love, namely the desire of satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate white human flesh." ~ Henry Fielding_

She hates him when he makes her say it. And he knows it.

It's vulgar, demeaning, and embarrassing to even consider the words. Entertaining them within the secrecy of her thoughts is safe, for no one has access to her thoughts. Not even he has the key to that door, though Lord knows he has tried repeatedly to obtain it, always without success. Within her mind are kept the most private of her thoughts. The romantic, the tender, and the compassionate. The odd, the senseless, and the obscure. The vulgar, the obscene, and the downright filthy.

Sometimes, he's lucky enough to get the latter out of her, but he has to work for them. And he always does. He wants to hear mere thoughts transformed into words, watch her dark lips move as her tongue releases the words for his ears to relish and savor, and more often than not, he'll catch a few of those words in his kiss. A kiss that leaves her breathless and with lips bruised and swollen. And he thinks she never looks quite so beautiful as she does when she's pinned beneath him, flushed and bruised and, sometimes, even bloodied from his touch.

He wants to make her say such things because he is the only one who can. He is the only one who works for them and receives them, each time with the smug satisfaction that she'll never break for anyone else. She can feel that insufferable smirk on his lips as he kisses her lips and skin. She doesn't need to look at him to know it's there, securely set upon his features in an obscene display of satisfaction that makes her want to claw his face off. And he knows it.

Were her hands currently free, she would probably make the attempt. But he knows better than to let her be free right now. Sometimes it is silk scarves if he's feeling romantic, or sometimes it's handcuffs and chains if he's feeling sadistic. Tonight, he is confident, and it is his own hands that hold hers securely to the bedsheets. As he bites his way down her throat, leaving heated marks behind, his fingers curl between hers, entwining them in a perversely gentle contradiction to the vicious way he torments her with his mouth. With each bite and lick, she can feel that smirk still in place. Smug bastard.

"Say it,"

"Go to hell." she grinds out, unwilling to accept or admit how much she likes it when he uses that husky tone, low and dark and dangerous, and forever reminding her that she is a fool for denying his request. He'll get what he wants. He always does. He knows it.

"Say it, Iris."

"Go to—" she doesn't quite finish the insult this time before words are lost to a choked whimper. She curses herself for giving him just what he wants, but the sharp and brutal prick of his teeth sinking into her breast is never a sensation easy to dismiss. He enjoys marking her there. She has the scars to prove it.

"Say it,"

God, she _hates_ him when he makes her say it. It sounds like something from those cheap and disgusting porn clips that she once watched out of uninformed curiosity. She had turned it off after a while, her ears unable to endure the high-pitched shrieks and bestial grunts any longer. But some phrases stick in her mind, and this is one of them.

He knows how much it annoys her to say it. Why else would he demand it of her?

She swallows thickly, forcing her tongue to comply. He has stopped touching her, and pathetic as it is, she needs his touch. She's addicted to his touch, his body, and that horribly masterful mind of his. A hopelessly consumed addict, and he is her drug of choice. Only when he holds himself and her pleasure hostage will she finally comply with his request.

He knows it. That's why he always does it.

"Fuck me." She whispers, voice disgustingly breathless and desperate. "Fuck me, Professor Crane."

He steals her voice in a rough kiss, that infernal smirk once again in place as he explores her warm cavern without shame. Still holding her hands prisoner, his knees slide between her thighs and force them apart without tenderness or concern. She shouldn't like it when he's this rough. But she does. He knows it.

She moans loudly when he finally pushes inside her, and her anger is forgotten in wake of primitive desires and sexual hungers that are unfit for civilized discussion. Her fingers curl downward to hold his hands tightly against hers. This is the most romantic that they get while making love—a thin but secure thread of tenderness and honest love surrounded by brutal thrusts and senseless abuse from his mouth to her skin. Her body returns every thrust with enthusiastic vigor. Her mouth responds to his bites with plenty of her own. Straight white teeth sink down into the tender skin of his collarbone, and she tastes blood soon after. He throws his hips against hers, sharpy and bony structures colliding and leaving bruises.

She loves it. He loves that she loves it.

"Say it," this time, his voice is a raspy growl. He loses his intellectual cool in the throes of passion, and it's her turn to smirk. She's the only one who can make him snap like this. She knows it.

"Fuck me." she hisses, nipping his earlobe to emphasize her words. This time, she doesn't care how filthy her language is. She has other things to care about.

"I can't hear you..." he's purring now, and she tightens her knees around his waist to leave bruises of her own making. His quiet groan is enough for now. She'll make him scream himself hoarse later. He knows it.

"Fuck me, you arrogant son of a bitch." she snarls, biting at his lower lip with all the daintiness of a cat in heat. "Fuck me now!"

He just smiles at her and complies without a word. She'll get him back for this later. He knows it. And he'll love everything she does to him. Every brutal, senseless, and ruthless act to satisfy her blood lust and feed her addiction to his body. He'll take it all, and she'll make him want more of it. More of her. And he'll beg for it. He'll beg and forget all pride for the sake of satisfying his own cravings.

He is as addicted to her as she is to him. And she knows it.


End file.
